


guys my age don't know how to touch me

by safeandsound13sreputationera (safeandsound13)



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Bathroom Sex, Best friend's brother, Dirty Talk, F/M, Praise Kink, Secret Crush, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-10
Updated: 2020-01-10
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:42:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22178764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/safeandsound13/pseuds/safeandsound13sreputationera
Summary: He licks his lips, brows knitted together. He gets that serious look on his face, that one he gets when he’s worried about Octavia staying out too late or eating too much junkfood. “You don’t realize what you’re asking for.”“I’m eighteen, Bellamy. I’m not a child,” she snaps, too wound up to stop now. If it makes her a little desperate, a little reckless, so be it. “This isn’t -- it’s not an impulsive decision. I’ve wanted you since I was fifteen.”Or: Octavia's brother chaperones Clarke's field-trip. She's always had a crush on him, and this time she decides to take action.
Relationships: Bellamy Blake/Clarke Griffin
Comments: 22
Kudos: 330
Collections: The 100 Kinkmeme Round 2020





	guys my age don't know how to touch me

**Author's Note:**

> written for the 100 kinkmeme 2020. i'll admit this one got a little away from me. 
> 
> spoilers ahead!! based on:
> 
> > the km prompt: Octavia's older brother comes on a school trip as a chaperone. Lots of teasing before they have sex in the museum bathroom or something? Prefered not underage but for Clarke to be 18 (senior). 
> 
> > also on this pic of mr morley [*pleading eyes emoji x100*](https://pbs.twimg.com/media/D_8KxoAXoAAzRg_?format=jpg&name=small)

Clarke was supposed to sit beside Octavia on the bus after losing a bet with Emori, Wells and Harper. They all liked her well enough, considering she was their friend, but she was also kind of overbearing, and claiming, and dominant. Whoever ended up next to her would probably be stuck with her for the entire day, and it was their last field trip before summer break and ultimately them all going different ways for college. 

The bet was fair and square. Whoever could hold the least shots was the loser. Considering Emori had been day drinking since she was fourteen, Wells is 6’2, and Clarke had strictly kept to wine coolers at the seldom parties she went to, one must think she should’ve never agreed in the first place. Yet, she’d had a plan. Considering Clarke thought thought she could at least beat Harper and she couldn’t know if the trade for another bet would be a trade up or a nightmare, she agreed. Only later she found out Harper’s boyfriend is used to mixing her drinks with liquor of at least twenty percent level of alcohol. 

So she lost. Fair and square. Clarke wasn’t one to break her promises.

Which is why she’s queued up behind Octavia on the bus, waiting for to find a seat that pleases her. Instead, she’s yelling at her brother, holding up the line in the process and making Clarke feel a horrible case of secondhand embarrassment. 

“You’re such a asshole,” the tiny brunette in front of her scowls, and her brother, Bellamy smirks right back at her, patting the spot beside him emphatically. “Aww, O, you’re not going to sit beside me?”

“I have to look at your ugly face enough at home.” 

“I paid for this fieldtrip. You wouldn’t even be here without me.”

“Whatever,” she grits, moving further forward to fall into a seat beside Harper. The other blonde widens her eyes at her -- full with panic and just the hint of a threat -- and Clarke clears her throat.

“Weren’t we going to sit together?” Clarke wonders, keeping her tone light. She isn’t trying  _ that _ hard to sound disappointed, and it shows.

“And now I’m sitting with Harper,” Octavia retorts, final, already reaching for her headphones in her backpack. Her other friend inclines her head with a dangerous look on her face, obviously urging Clarke to try harder, but she shrugs, mouthing a quick sorry. There’s not that much she can say without revealing they talked about Octavia behind her back and they will  _ all _ have to face her wrath if they do. It’s not really breaking a promise when there’s no other way to keep it.

“Come on, O, can’t you switch with Clarke?” Bellamy buts in, sitting up to look at her over the back of his seat, his last attempt at getting to set beside his sister probably, considering he would never in a million years stand up for  _ her.  _ Bellamy doesn’t like Clarke. 

“What?” The younger Blake says, obviously having heard them but choosing to not hear it. As if to make a point, she slides her sunglasses out of her hair and onto her nose, clicking her headphones into her phone. The distant loud bass of a Paramore song drums through the bus, and with that, Clarke knows the discussion is over. 

“Everybody put on your seatbelts, we’re taking off in two!” Mr. Pike’s voice rings through the aisle, the hint of a warning in it. 

Bellamy turns his attention to her now, as if for the first time noticing her, looking at her expectantly, eyebrow arched. Clarke takes one more look around the bus; Emori is already sitting with one of the other scholarship kids; Wells is sitting alone but she knows he’s saving the other spot for Luna and she’d rather not be a cockblock; and finally at the empty seat beside Finn. He waves at her, putting on the puppy eyes at full force. 

Clarke feels a shiver run down her spine at the thought of having to sit beside him for two hours, uncomfortably refuse his not-so-subtle advances, politely laughing at his dumb jokes only to later be told by him that she’s ‘leading him on’. 

Without giving it another thought, Clarke squeezes herself past Bellamy’s knees, plopping down in the window seat. She readjusts her jean skirt -- bless casual wear -- so she’s not a second away from flashing him her underwear, before trying to stuff her backpack in between her feet.

“Let me get that for you,” he says lightly, reaching for it while already getting up from his seat.

“Thanks,” she mumbles, not used to his politeness, cheeks heating. Since when did he start being nice to her? Last time she checked everything she did or said annoyed him. Not that she ever really cared that much. He annoyed her right back with his overprotectiveness and stubbornness and ridiculous charm. 

He puts it up in the overhead storage, his white t-shirt revealing sliver of taut bronze skin and a dark patch of hair as he stretches to put it away safely. Clarke quickly pretends to look out the window.

She expects that to be it. He got his good karma points, and now they’ll sit here in silence until they reach the museum. Instead, his baritone voice speaks up from beside her again. “What’s the deal between you and the Timberlake guy?”

Clarke’s brows furrow together as she turns her head to look at him. “Timberlake guy?”

Bellamy nudges his head somewhere behind him and she follows the movement to --  _ right,  _ Finn. His eyes, already on hers, widen hopefully so Clarke quickly tears her gaze away. 

Landing back on Bellamy, she simply says, “Your references are out of date.”

He raises his eyebrows, unbothered. “Well?”

Her jaw clenches, fingers flexing briefly. She doesn’t like to talk about it. “We dated.” 

Of course, he doesn’t know when to stop. Or maybe knows exactly when, but chooses not to. Likes to push her. “And?”

Clarke straightens her shoulders, exhaling sharply through her nose as she looks back out of the window. “ _ And  _ he already had a girlfriend.”

“Ouch,” he hisses, leaning his head back against the seat, shaking it lightly. His head lolls to the side so he can look at her. “He’s a dumbass.”

She searches his face suspiciously, forehead crinkled. She doesn’t really find an explanation there, so instead she asks, “Why are you being nice?”

She’s not complaining, per se. She’s just weirded out. When they were freshmen at St. Polis Academy , she and Octavia used to be super close. They had sleepovers almost every weekend. Octavia is here on a scholarship, and while that never bothered Clarke, one time after Bellamy came to pick his sister up from her house, the sleepovers got less frequent. At first she didn’t understand why, then she realized it’d been shame. Which might have been why Bellamy was so defensive all the time.

Always picking a fight with her about anything. Making fun of her and her interests. Teasing her about her father’s watch, or new expensive school bag. Of course she gave it as good as she got it, but still. She never got the impression he liked her very much. He could be nice to other people, soft to the ones he liked the most even, like his sister or his friends, but never to her. 

(Well,  _ sometimes _ . On holidays, or if he was drunk. Rarely.)

Bellamy lifts one shoulder lazily. “Maybe I changed.”

She gives him a judgemental once over. He looks mostly the same since she last saw him. Curly hair still a mess on top of his head, although he’s gained a little more muscle and he is wearing glasses now. Does he think they make him look smarter? Clarke huffs, skeptical. “You?”

He grins, teasingly, and she resents the way it makes her feel. “Time changes people, princess. It’s been like two years since I last saw you in your little cinderella shorts.”

It’s true. She hasn’t been over much. Her and Octavia kind of grew apart. Nowadays she was always chasing boys and adrenaline, and Clarke just wanted to focus on school, do well so she could get into a good college and get away from her mom. Weekly sleepovers and daily phone calls turned into only sitting together at lunch about twice a week, whenever Octavia decided not to skip and actually show up. 

The mention of her cinderella shorts makes her a bit annoyed. Yes, she knew wearing cinderella shorts at fifteen was obnoxious. But her dad gave them to her during their first christmas together after the divorce. Their last one before he died. He didn’t realize Clarke was way, way past the princess stage, but it always warmed her heart to think of the memory. At least he cared. 

It was a comfort thing, wearing them whenever she went away from home. 

She knows she looked like a dork in them. Pink cinderella shorts, the heavy uneven eye-liner she’d wear all the time back then trying to impress her crush, Lexa, the pigtails Octavia forced her to wear to match hers. But she was  _ fifteen _ \-- all fifteen year olds are dorks. 

It broke her heart when her hips grew too wide for her to fit in them any longer. Is that what he’s guessing at too? Some code for him implying she looks older now, more attractive now and therefore she deserves his kindness now? She scoffs, turning back to look out of the window. She won’t even bother with a reply when she’s not even sure of his intentions. 

“Besides,” he’s still talking to her, and she sighs, aggravated, turning her head back to him again. “I was an ass to you for no reason.”

He looks genuine, so she relents. A little. “And I was a bitch to you for exactly that reason.”

Bellamy chuckles, making her lower belly feel funny. “Fair enough.” 

He smiles, and she smiles back. It’s not exactly the apology of the year, but it’s kind of nice. Starting over. There’s a loud rumble as the bus ignites it’s engine, and they drive off.

He falls asleep on her shoulder after ten minutes on the road, heavy and warm against her, and she lets him because she still remembers him always leaving early and coming home late, rushing from job to job to make ends meet. Clarke preoccupies herself by reading the book she finds stashed on the back of the seat in front of him. The pages are a little ruffled, like they’ve been turned a thousand times, and on the inside of the cover it says BB in messy block letters. It’s a story about war and Greek gods, written like a poem. 

About an hour in, he wakes up to her friends jostling her about fucking  _ prom  _ of all things. Clarke doesn’t like parties. Especially not parties hosted by their school which means there’s only going to be her classmates in attendance, half of which she hates. She’ll have to drink to get through the night and all it will lead to is embarrassing pictures and a weeklong hangover. 

He’s rubbing his eyes while Clarke is pointedly ignoring Harper announcing she’s going to go on her Tinder account for a swipe session, having wrestled her phone from her minutes before. And then also ignores Octavia -- promptly pulling the phone from her hand and tossing it in Clarke’s lap with a threat for her life if she doesn’t start swiping -- even harder. 

Although she does start moving her finger over the screen mindlessly.  _ Left, left, left.  _ She finds Bellamy blinking at her curiously, now fully awake. 

Clarke doesn’t look up from her phone. “They want to find me a date for prom.”

He readjusts in his seat, his shoulder brushing against hers briefly. He sounds skeptical. “And Tinder is the place to do that?”

She refuses to feel embarrassed about it, still swiping without any real purpose. “Well, I put it on age 18 and up because I’m over high school drama.” After all that shit with Finn and Raven and all the other petty stuff that’s happened over the past few years, she can’t wait to go to college and be around  _ adults. “ _ I’m into mature people now.”

He frowns, searching her face for a beat before he takes her phone from her, warm fingers brushing hers, studying her matches meticulously. She lets him, mostly because she’s not really convinced she’s going to find what she’s looking for on Tinder. A date is going to expect things, like her not leaving prom after an hour to curl up in front of the tv at home. 

He scrolls for a while, then while zooming in on a girl with long, braided blonde hair, angling the phone towards her, informs her, “She’s cute.”

Octavia kicks against his chair, hard, lets them know, “Don’t trust his opinion. The last girl he dated looked like a horse.”

“Shut up,” Bellamy growls, glaring at his sister through the space between their seats the way only siblings can. He’s so dramatic you’d almost forget he’s twenty-three. “You’re just saying that because she accidentally gave you a bloody nose.”

Well. Clarke’s seen pictures. Octavia was always complaining about his girlfriend back then and she got curious. She’s not too proud to admit she’s stalked his instagram because of it. The girl had a nice ass, as far as Clarke could tell from all the bikini shots. Long sleek, shiny, brown hair. Skinny. Nothing like her, she noted, even then. 

Octavia kicks his chair again. “How do you accidentally deck someone in the nose?”

He ignores her, holding Clarke’s phone out for her in his flat palm. Behind them, Octavia has already moved on to bullying Wells into giving her one of his snacks. Not because she doesn’t have any of her own, but because she likes his more. Harper is lost in conversation with Emori, in a seat besides hers. 

She takes the phone, stuffs it in the back pocket of her skirt. His eyes linger on her lap then, the book still there. “Sorry,” she mumbles, already picking it up to hand it back to him, “I was bored.”

His eyes linger on the book as she holds it out, “Do you like it?”

It’s nothing like she would regularly read, but it wasn’t bad. And she knows he likes it enough to have worn out the pages. She doesn’t want to give him any reasons to start disliking her again. “Kind of.” 

Slowly, a grin spread across his lips, an amused gleam in his eyes. “You’re a bad liar.” He doesn’t look mad or disappointed. She’s usually better at it actually. He just makes her nervous, arm against hers, knee knocking against hers, face so close. He’s so big, it’s overwhelming how he is everywhere and yet still not close enough. 

“Why did you come?” Clarke changes the subject swiftly, willing her heart rate to slow down. She plays right into his corner. “Don’t you have anything better to do than make sure none of these trust fund teens get lost?”

“They give field-trip discounts to students if a relative chaperones,” he explains, pulling his water bottle from the net pocket on the seat in front of him, unscrewing the cap. “Plus, I’m hoping to get a job here once I graduate.”

She follows the movement of his adam’s apple as he takes a sip, licking her lips. “I thought you were studying history.”

“I am.” He stuffs the bottle back in the net, then arches a brow, looking back at her. “So?”

“I mean -- I thought you were gonna work at a museum or something,” Clarke explains, keeping it light. She stifles a smirk near the end of her next sentence. “Giving tours, being a nerd, hitting on everything with a heartbeat.”

“Cute,” he comments, dryly. Then he shrugs, like it’s no big deal. “I’m getting my teacher’s license after I graduate.”

“Oh,” she says dumbly, feeling her cheeks heat. All her student-teacher fantasies are suddenly coming to life right in front of her. It’s stupid. And wrong. But God, she can’t stop thinking about it. 

He gives her a curious look. “Are you disappointed you won’t get to call me Mr. Blake?”

Bellamy’s obviously teasing, in that way he always does, but she can’t physically seem to be able to form a reply, her face only coloring further.

“It’s okay, sweetheart. You can call me Mr. Blake anytime you want,” he adds jokingly, quickly patting her bare knee. When he notices her reaction -- wide eyes, flushed skin, slightly parted lips -- he lets his big hand linger, holding her gaze, his eyes dark. Then his sister kicks her chair this time, making him retract his hand just in time before she’s hanging above her seat. Mouthful of food, she asks, “And? Any winners?”

At the museum, every girl in her class seems to be permanently stuck on his heels, following him around from exhibit to exhibit, pretending to listen to his stories about the art on the walls and behind glass cases. 

He stops in front of a painting in the same room as Clarke and Emori, a circle of girls vulturing around him like he’s their personal guide, and like somehow the one who laughs the hardest at his stupid, dumb jokes will win a prize. 

Clarke catches the back-half of his story as her eyes flick over to the group of admirers. “...Remus and Romulus actually fought to the death about who got to name Rome. I think we all know we won.”

“You’re so funny,” Mel giggles, touching his bicep briefly. A wave of nausea washes over her as Bellamy grins at her, walking over to a table with different kind of Roman coins on display in it. 

Clarke rolls her eyes, gritting her teeth. She’s had about enough of this. It’s ridiculous, the way they all fawn over him, and he’s only encouraging them. 

She adjusts the strap of her bag on her shoulder, then mumbles something about going to the bathroom to Emori. She’s too occupied conspiratorially whispering with her scholarship friend, Murphy, in the corner to even really notice and she’s not entirely sure they’re not going to end up trying to steal something. Plausible deniability and all. 

She actually does end up trying to find the bathroom, and after a few detours, actually ends up in front of it. Before she can open the door, there’s a voice behind her. 

“I thought I’d never get a chance to talk to you.”

“Finn,” she bristles, dreadfully, turning on her heels. 

“Please just hear me out,” he pleads, pushing his hands together in front of him. If she’d ask him, he’d get down on his knees and beg. He has no spine like that. He was too cowardly to tell Raven he wanted out, and he was too cowardly to tell her he was still wrapped up in a relationship with someone else. She hates cowards. 

She tightens her hold on the strap of her bag, trying to keep her voice down. “I don’t want to.”

His eyes get all big and sad. “I swear, you’ll understand, if you’d just listen to me--”

“I have no interest in listening to your bullshit excuses,” Clarke dismisses him, final before starting to push open the door to the bathroom. “Now if you’ll excuse me--”

He pulls the door closed to keep her from getting in, desperately begging, wild look in his eyes, “Clarke,  _ please _ \--”

She cries out as her hand gets stuck in between the jamb and the door and tears prick behind her eyes as she cradles it to her chest. Clarke stumbles back into the door, trying to keep him at a distance. She’s not afraid of him, she just doesn’t want to be anywhere near him.

“I’m sorry--” He stammers, eyes wide, reaching out for her but she shakes her head, eyes narrowed with contempt. “I didn’t mean to, you have to -- please, believe me.”

“Just fucking leave, Finn,” Clarke seethes, clenching her jaw tightly. Honestly the pain is nothing compared to the disgust she feels looking at him. 

He never listens. Just stands there, glued to the floor. Luckily, there’s another dark voice coming from behind him. “Get out of here, man.”

Relief floods Clarke’s body at the sight of Wells as her ex-boyfriend turns at the sound, his arms crossed over his chest as he stares the other boy down. Finn flicks his hair from his eyes, shaking his head lightly. “Wells, dude, this is between me and her.”

Wells takes a step closer, teeth gritted together. He opens his mouth, but someone else beats him to it. “What’s going on here?” 

It’s Bellamy, stalking over to them, his entourage nowhere in sight. 

“Nothing,” Clarke insists, wiping at a stray tear on her cheek. The pain’s mostly faded by now -- she’s just angry. Fucking asshole. She keeps her eyes on Finn, hoping he gets the message, loud and clear. “It’s  _ nothing. _ ”

“She asked you to leave,” Wells reminds him, but Finn continues to shake his head, like somehow it’ll keep him from hearing the words. 

“If she asked you to go, just go,” Bellamy cuts in from beside Wells. 

Finn screws up his face, obviously annoyed. “Dude, you’re  _ no one. _ Why don’t you go back to reliving your glory days and hitting on those underage girls?”

Bellamy takes a step towards him, looking eerily calm safe for the way his nostrils are flared. “Exactly. I  _ am  _ no one. I have no relation to this school. Which means I can pretty much do whatever the hell I want to a prep school fuckboy like you.” The threat in his words is clear. There’s clear contemptuous sarcasm in his next words, “Public education made me tough and all.”

Finn looks between the three of them, opening his mouth. She glares at him even harder, and he finally clamps it shut, throwing up his hands before he finally saunters off. 

“I’ll go see where he’s going, make sure he doesn’t follow you again,” Wells offers with a squeeze of her shoulder, and Clarke nods her thanks. Bellamy barely hears him, eyes focused on her bruised hand. It’s an angry red color, but nothing too bad. 

“We should take a look at that,” he grumbles, nudging his head towards the bathroom. She knows he’s not really angry at her for getting hurt, but the heat in his voice makes it obvious he’s mad about  _ something.  _

She follows him inside, taking a seat on top of the counter by the sink as she watches him pull a first aid kid from his bag. Her hand barely hurts, thankfully, but she doesn’t want to admit that and risk having to go back out there and watch him flirt with anyone who isn’t her. 

It’s quiet as he examines her hand, his touch gentle as he prods her skin. Clarke watches silently, bottom lip tugged in between her teeth. She’s not going to lie. Seeing him get all defensive over her kind of got her hot. Him standing this close, heated skin on hers, it’s not helping at all to bring her back down. 

His phone buzzes in his pocket, with different variations of buzzes, but he doesn’t let go of her hand to fish it out. “You’re not going to get that?”

“No,” he says first, dropping her hand as he picks up a roll of bandage, tears the plastic off. “Exes,” Bellamy adds with a dry chuckle, “I don’t have to tell you about that.”

He starts to wrap her hand a little awkward, like he hasn’t really done this before. “You mean that tall girl always in your instagram comments?”

His eyebrows jump, finally making eye-contact. There’s amusement written all over her face. “You been keeping tabs?”

“No,” Clarke blurts out immediately, but comes up blank with it comes to an excuse. Her heart pounds loudly in her chest. She’s  _ so _ stupid. The last thing his ego needs is the knowledge she has a crush on him. 

“No?” He echoes, skeptical. 

“No,” she repeats more firmly, not backing down. She tucks her hair behind her ear, staring down at their hands. “Octavia likes us to like her pictures all the time, even when she’s making a cameo on yours. And you’re obsessed with her.”

“Sure,” he agrees, but he’s smirking smugly and Clarke decides she hates him. 

“You’re doing it wrong,” she notes finally, in lieu of a better reply, just as he takes out a plaster to hold the bandage together. 

“You couldn’t have told me that before, princess?” He sighs, watching her hold her hand up to her face, wiggling her fingers a little. It’s not too tight, at least. 

“It’ll do,” she assures him, letting it drop in her lap as she finds the courage to look back up at him. 

He looks uncomfortable, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. “What you said before about high school drama…” His voice trails off, his gaze uncertain. 

“What about it?” She presses, a warning in her voice. Is he going to make fun of her again? Belittle her, or call her stupid? She’s not really in the mood. Especially not after he just witnessed that embarrassing fight with Finn. 

Bellamy shrugs a little, his voice impossibly soft all of a sudden. “I don’t want to see you get hurt, Clarke.”

She scoffs, fingers tightening around the counter. She doesn’t want to be babied. Least of all by him. “I can handle myself.”

“I know you can,” he throws right back, just as defensive. He shakes his head lightly, fight leaving his voice, just more frustration there now. “I just don’t get why you can’t just not date for a while. No reason going out there looking for --”

“Mature men or women?” She cuts in, harshly. Her jaw flexes, eyes raking the ceiling like it’ll help find her the right way to put this into words. Despite everything, she trusts him, and she wants to be honest with him, but she’s also humiliated by the thought of sharing  _ this _ with him. Another, smaller part of her is thrilled, excited to see how he’ll react to it. “It’s because -- I feel like they know what they’re doing.”

His brow furrows together, and he crosses his arms over his chest. Clarke’s eyes linger on his biceps, rolling her lips together. A million and one things flash across his face, like he’s trying to find the exact meaning of her words. “Know what they’re doing?”

“I mean --” She flushes, because  _ oh, God _ . Mortified and thirsty, a weird combination of feelings circling her system. She shrugs, closing her eyes like somehow it’ll help to get the words out if she doesn’t have to look at him. “Finn.. He didn’t.. He  _ couldn’t _ \--”

“What?” His voice is rough, somehow more certain, like everything’s finally clicked into place. “Make you come?”

Suddenly it occurs to her they’re in a public bathroom, and she shushes him, looking around, absolutely scandalized. He only laughs in response, obviously finding her oh-so-funny. “What?  _ Mature  _ people don’t blush when someone mentions an orgasm, Clarke.”

“Stop, you’re just making fun of me,” she snaps, cheeks hot with humiliation as she looks down at the floor. 

“I’m sorry,” he urges, and even though he’s still half-chuckling he sounds genuine. “I promise I’m not making fun of you.” He grins, encouragingly, “Please continue.”

“I don’t know,” she starts, unsure, swallowing tightly. Something about the look on his face is calming, enough for her to push through and confess, “It’s not  _ just  _ Finn. I hooked up with Niylah, a junior girl. She--” Clarke clears her throat awkwardly. “Uhm, went down on me, but after twenty minutes I got bored and just pretended to, you know...” She inhales sharply, looking away from his intense, brown eyes again as she mumbles, “It just never feels as good as when I’m on my own.”

“So what?” He sounds incredibly unimpressed. “Tinder is the next logical step?”

It’s not like she has a magical number under her speed-dial that’s going to make a compatible partner show up on her doorstep. And it’s different, when it’s just her by herself. Predictable. Her body knows exactly what move she’s going to pull five steps before she does it. She’s lonely. Needy. Never fully satisfied. 

Just short of pouting, Clarke shrugs again, frustration evident in her voice. “I just want somebody to make me feel good.”

Her words linger in the ear, the tension in the room growing thick as a deafening silence wraps around them. His face is unreadable as he stares her down, but his fingers have tightened around his biceps enough for her to know she can wear him down, break him. 

Least of all, she is Clarke Griffin. She can try. 

Making up her mind, she spreads her knees, just a little. She refuses to look away from his face, straightens her shoulders like she has nothing to be ashamed of. Like she’s not outright implying she wants  _ him  _ to touch her. Openly welcoming him to, even. 

His eyes fall down to the creamy expanse of her thighs, the obvious invitation between her legs. He looks back up at her, eyebrows raised. Bellamy seems completely unaffected by the situation in front of him, even though her heart is hammering from the anticipation of his answer while at the same time shame makes the back of her eyes prick. She breathes through it, holding his gaze. She needs to prove she’s not just his sisters stupid little friend, that she can handle it, handle him, even handle his rejection. 

Then he surprises her, one of his big hands covering her knee. “And you want it to be me?”

_ God, yes. _ Clarke doesn’t think she’s ever wanted anything more in her life than for him to touch her right now. Yet, she lifts her shoulders lazily. “You look like you’d be capable.” 

He laughs, the sound warm and dark and sending a jolt of electricity straight to her centre. She squirms just a little, painting it off as adjusting on top of the sink. His hand inches a little higher, warmth spreading across her thigh and up her spine. He’s still holding her gaze, laced with just a bit of amusement, as if waiting for her to back down any minute now. 

Clarke doesn’t, never will. Once she’s started something, she’ll finish it. Instead she bites down on her bottom lip, leaning further back on her hands so she can open her legs even wider. 

Bellamy smirks, fingering the hem of her skirt, and the sight combined with his touch makes her heart pound even louder. He steps closer so he’s standing in between her knees, putting his free hand on top of her hip, slowly moving it up her side. 

Her grey t-shirt rides up with his hand until he reaches the underside of her breast, thumb barely brushing it but still making her breath hitch in the back of her throat. Her tongue darts out to wet her lips and she swallows tightly. He stifles another smirk, she can tell, barely brushing the side of her breast -- just what she desperately wants -- as he continues to move up to her chest. 

Clarke lets out a frustrated huff of breath and he raises his eyebrows again, hand stopping on her neck. His thumb brushes over her pulsepoint, his other fingers weaving into her hair at the back of her head. “Are you sure this is really what you want?”

The urge to close her legs to release some of the tension she feels there becomes almost unbearable, but she stays still. Instead her fingers wrap around the hand still playing with the hem of her skirt, guiding them towards her core. She feels a little lightheaded at her own bravery, her pulse rattling loudly as he’s certainly able to feel with his thumb, but she knows he won’t continue if she shows any signs of weakness. Of little girls, asking for too much. 

She stops breathing as she feels the weight of his hand on top of her damp panties finally, swallowing again to get rid of the dryness in her throat. It doesn’t work, and he’s still looking at her with hesitation, even if there’s some surprise swirling in there as well. Maybe he’s even a tiny bit impressed. The possibility makes her push through, keeping her voice perfectly steady as she presses, “I don’t know. You tell me.”

She’s wet. Embarrassingly so. Probably since he first touched her on the bus, and after that worsened by him willing to beat Finn up for her. It’s everything about him, from the way he looks, to the way he smells and the way he acts. She wants him.  _ Knows _ she’ll never want anything else after him.

He licks his lips, brows knitted together. He gets that serious look on his face, that one he gets when he’s worried about Octavia staying out too late or eating too much junkfood. “You don’t realize what you’re asking for.”

“I’m eighteen, Bellamy. I’m not a child,” she snaps, too wound up to stop now. If it makes her a little desperate, a little reckless, so be it. “This isn’t -- it’s not an impulsive decision. I’ve wanted you since I was fifteen.” 

She’s always thought he was hot. From the messy curls and the white teeth to the broad shoulders and the golden brown skin. He was a fantasy. Her friend’s attractive older brother who was in college, who argued with her like she was someone important and one time during a party let her have her first sip of beer as long as she didn’t tell Octavia. Most of the time, he’d be mean to her and she ended up hating how much more it made her want him. Now she finally has a chance to make it real. 

His eyebrows shoot up at her confession. “So why now?”

“Because you hated me,” she argues, forehead crinkled. “Thought I was an annoying child.”

She’s always been mature for her age, but now she looks like it too. The past two years, she’s grown, in more ways than one. She got actual breasts now, hips, an ass. He won’t have to feel guilty for being attracted to her. She’s legal, too. There’s no reason why they couldn’t.

“I never hated you,” he confesses, surprising her enough for it to show on her face. “I hated what you stood for, sure. But,” his fingers ghost over her clit, and Clarke inhales shakily. “Not you. You’re smart,” he leans his head further down so he can say it right by her ear, hot breath against her skin making goosebumps erupt on the back of her neck. “And compassionate,” he noses the column of her neck as he finally puts some pressure on her cunt, her knees involuntarily tightening around his hips. “You’re challenging.” He rubs tight, small circles over her underwear and she’s not even embarrassed when a moan slips from her lips. “Good for my sister.” Abruptly he pulls his hand back, and she almost cries out at the loss of contact. The hand still cupping her neck moves up to brush a piece of hair behind her ear, his admiring gaze on her face making her blush. “Such a pretty girl, too.”

Her eyes flick down to his lips, and she can no longer hide the fact she’s positively panting. She can’t look away, can’t stop thinking about kissing him. His deep, hoarse voice goes straight to her heated centre. “Do you just want me to touch you?”

Clarke shakes her head slowly. 

A smile splits across his face, teasing, smug. “You’ll have to say it.”

“No,” she blurts out, too eager to keep her voice from shaking slightly. Her eyes rake his face, desperate, confessions spilling from her lips. “I want you to kiss me. Make me feel good. I want to -- I want to touch you.” Her mind races, all of it coming down to one conclusion, “Everything. I want everything.”

“Hmm,” he says, like he’s considering it, thumb running over the soft skin of her cheek. Bellamy leans down, his forehead against hers, lips ghosting over hers. Their hot breaths mix and Clarke can’t take it any longer. “The door,” she reminds him, one hand coming up on his waist, gripping tightly onto his shirt. 

“Isn’t that half the fun anyway?” He muses, lips barely touching hers as he talks. Her toes curl in her shoes, whole body straining to keep from acting on her impulses. “Thinking of how someone might walk in here, see your chaperone’s hand down you panties, making you feel good?” He noses her cheek, presses a kiss right beside her ear as he lowers his voice, “Maybe it’ll be Harper and she’ll tell all the others how dirty you are.” He grins almost meanly, hand cupping her chin as he looks at her again. “Or Finn. I bet you’d want it to be Finn, right? So he can see what you really look like when you come?”

Oh, fuck. Fuck, fuck. She can feel a surge of wetness practically seep out of her. She squirms, squeezing her eyes shut, a thin layer of sweat covering her skin by now. “Please. Please just --” 

He kisses her finally, but not at all like she expected. It’s soft, sweet, languid. His mouth licking into hers, taking it’s time exploring it. She relaxes under him again, fingers wrapping around the wrist of the hand palming her cheek. Her other hand clings onto the back of his shirt, trying to pull him as close as possible. 

“Lift,” he commands against her mouth, dragging his hands up her thighs. Clarke does what she’s told obediently, bracing herself against the counter. He slides his hands back under her skirt, hooking his fingers into her panties, yanking them down her legs. 

As he throws them beside them on the counter, Clarke scrambles to push her skirt drag her skirt further up, the cold air stinging her wet skin. She untugs her t-shirt from her skirt as well, just in case he needs easy access.

“Should I touch you here?” Bellamy asks, placing a hand on her mound, looking up at her expectantly. It’s almost too much, his hand where she wants it, but not quite. 

Clarke lets out a little whimpering, nodding, but instead of giving her what she wants, he just moves his hand a little further down, palming her pussy fully. She inhales sharply, trying to keep from bucking into his hand. “Should I touch you here? Put my fingers inside of you? Play with you a little?”

She might go insane. His voice, his heat, his fingers -- it’s too much. Clarke bites her lip, fingers curling into fists on top of the counter, legs just slightly trembling with impatience and  _ need.  _

“No,” Bellamy muses, somehow completely serious, his hand continuing to trail up slow and torturous. His fingers slide under her shirt, stopping right below her breasts, her breathing speeding up with anticipation. “Or should I taste you? Put my mouth on you? Find out what you taste like?”

Clarke swallows, leaning her head back against the mirror as she regarded him with lidded eyes. She knew now it didn’t matter what she said, he was going to do what he wanted anyway. He liked this power over her. So did she. 

His hands move again, this time pulling the cups of her bra down so he can palm her tits, roughened thumb moving over her nipples. Her eyes flutter closed, every movement sending tiny jolts of electricity straight to her clit. 

He keeps a hold of one tit, using his other hand to drag her shirt up so he can see what he’s playing with. “God,” he breathes with a groan, squeezing the one in his grip. “Look at you.”

Clarke flushes at the compliment, finds herself tilting her head just slightly, jutting out her chin to ask for a kiss. He relents, giving it to her. They exchange a few chaste kisses, distracting her enough for her to not notice his other hand had moved back down over the smooth skin of her stomach. 

His fingers delved inside of her slit, meeting warm, wet skin. She throws her head back, exposing her neck. Bellamy presses a single finger inside of her, watching her body arch up towards him as she struggles to keep her eyes open. He grins wickedly at how he’s met with almost no resistance, slipping inside her easily. “I think I’m going to touch you here,” he murmurs, leaning down to press a hot, open-mouthed kiss to the flushed exposed column of her neck. “So I can see you.”

Clarke just hums in agreement, not really caring what he uses as long as he keeps doing it. It feels so good, his finger much thicker than her own. Although one doesn’t last long, Bellamy quickly adding another as her knees fall even further to the side, allowing him even more access, thumb working her clit. 

He’s must be enjoying it too, because she can feel it against her thigh, how hard he is, and it makes her feel proud. Almost better than the way she’s feeling right now. Almost. 

He moves slow and torturous, Clarke trying to keep her breathing even as his other hand pinched and pulled on her nipple, gripping the soft skin around it tightly.

“Am I doing it right?” He breathes against her neck, the hint of a tease in there, and Clarke can’t take any more. She was right there on the edge. Could feel her orgasm pull at the far reaches of her mind, just out of her grasp. Fingertips just grazing the pleasure he was about to give her in a public bathroom in the middle of a field trip. 

She tries and fails to keep her voice steady, pleading, “Please, Bellamy, please.” All rational thought has left her, and she’s not even sure what she wants from him anymore, just wants it now.

On his next thrust his finger curl, reaching an undiscovered spot inside of her that makes her toes curl, and white spots swim in front of her vision as her entire body jerks with pleasure. “Mhmm, just like that, there you go. That’s it,” he mutters encouragingly, making it even harder for her to hold on to the last of her sanity. Once more his fingers curve, twice more and she unravels, hard. Pleasure exploding and washing over her in waves.

Clarke lets out a choked moan, her hand wrapping around his wrist to stop his movements while she rides out the aftershocks herself, bucking up against his hand.

“Look at you, taking what you want,” he whispers hoarsely, releasing his grip on her breast and removing it from under her shirt to smooth her hair away from her damp forehead. “So sexy.”

Clarke’s entire body is trembling, not sure what just happened, just sure it’s never felt like  _ that _ before. She opens her eyes, too boneless to really do anything but watch him as he brings his fingers to his lips, sucking them clean. 

Despite just coming, harder than she ever has before, and hardly having recovered from it, she throws her body forward, crashing her lips into his. He holds onto her, rubbing her back as she kisses him, rough and needy and wet. 

Her hand snakes in between the two of them, and as she grasps him through his pants, slowly stroking his hardness, she realized what it meant to have someone under your control. To feel them, make them lose themselves just from your touch. That what he just did for her, she could do for him. She was his, and he could be hers. 

“I want more,” Clarke demands, hoarsely, staring up at him, not really caring she sounded like an ungrateful brat. She’s had a taste and now she can’t stop. 

For some reason, there’s conflict on his face as he runs a thumb over her pink lips, swollen from kissing. “Sure that’s a good idea, princess?”

Her heart swells at the nickname, suddenly not so bad anymore, and she finds herself nodding already, that familiar throbbing between her legs returning even more relentlessly. “I can take it.”

“I know you can,” he chuckles breathily, like she’s said something funny, but then he’s leaning in for another sweet kiss and she forgets to ask him about it. 

They’re still kissing when he starts to unzip himself, pulling out his cock. Clarke pulls back from his mouth because she wants to see, but his other hand comes up on the back of her neck, holding her close for one more kiss. He breathes against her mouth as he strokes himself a few times, spreading the wetness at his tip with his thumb. He’s big, just like the rest of him. 

Clarke bites down on her lip again, taking in the sight below her as he ducks his head a little, nipping at the side of her neck. “Can I?”

He nods against her, and her much smaller hand pries away his, fisting his cock herself. She moves her hands up and down experimentally, listens to the sound of his breathing to figure out what he likes as he mouths at her neck and collarbone. 

A few more tugs and she’s lowering her voice to a whisper, other hand combing through his curls. She adds an extra layer of innocence to it, just because she can. “Can I put it inside of me?”

“Fuck, Clarke,” he groans, lifting his head up to look at her. She looks up at him through her lashes, eyes dark and smug, like she hadn’t known exactly what she was doing to him. 

“Please?” She adds, licking her lips. His hand covers her neck, thumb dipping into her slick mouth. She sucks on his finger, releasing it with a wet sound and he lets out a shaky breath. 

“Yeah,” he gives in, finally, and Clarke practically glows with it, the pride swelling in her chest at how she’s the reason he’s looking absolutely wrecked. She can’t wait any longer, wants him inside of her. “Condom?”

He steps away from her briefly to fish one from his backpack, tearing the plastic off skillfully before sliding the prophylactic onto his glistening cock, ready for her. Clarke takes over again, grabbing his cock to rub it’s length up and down her sensitive folds, slick it up with her wetness, bumping the head against her clit. 

He grunts, resting his forehead back against her shoulder as she adjusts her position a little, slotting the head of his cock at her entrance. It feels like all the air in the room has disappeared. His hands grip her hips tightly, fingertips digging into her skin. 

Clarke’s chest heaves up and down heavily, anticipation building and building along with the tension inside of her core. One little push, and his swollen head is just inside of her. She bites back a moan, adjusting to the feel of him. 

He only stays there for a moment before using his grip on her hips to slide into her completely, hot and flush inside of her until he bottoms out, groaning right along with her as they watch his cock split her open. 

Carefully, he begins to move slowly, pulling himself out of her just to push back inside as their mouths meet messily. With every snap of his hips she jolts backward, head moving against the mirror behind her as a coiling feeling of pleasure starts to build in the pit of her stomach again. Clarke grounds herself, struggling to push back with as much force as her position allows her to. 

He sets a deep, languid pace, sliding his hands down to her thigh to pull them up higher, inaudible words and moans tumbling from her lips against his mouth. No longer really kissing, just touching mouths messily. 

Every time he groans or grunts she feels like she’s losing herself in him. She wanted to make sure he remembered this, leave a lasting impression that made sure that every time he fucked someone else, he’d think of her. 

One of his hands moves down to draw tight circles around her clit, and it’s all she needs to be pushed over the edge again. Her back arches, fingernails digging into his back, limbs shaking as she whimpers her way through another orgasm. 

She clenches around his cock, finally making him lose it, too. Bellamy bites down on the juncture of her neck as he pulses inside of her hot cunt. The feeling of it almost making her come again. 

They’re both panting as he pulls back from her after a moment, slowly relaxing her thighs back into the counter completely before slipping out of her. He goes to get rid of the condom in a nearby trash can, and Clarke scrambles to grab her panties and puts them back on before hurrying off the counter. 

Once he returns he’s already tucked himself back into his pants, and there’s a strange look on his face. Clarke is content, thoroughly fucked. She doesn’t really expect anything more, but he still kisses her. Lazy, and sweet, and a little bit overwhelming. 

When he pulls away, she uses the back of her hand to dry her mouth, staring up at him, a tiny bit unsure. She knew she wanted this badly, and she got it. Now she’s not sure how she’s supposed to give it up. 

He cups her jaw, thumb caressing her chin delicately. There’s something a lot like awe in his gaze, fondness. “You’re really something, you know that?”

Suddenly she feels confident when it comes to sex, because at least she knows she’s good at it. That he felt as amazing as she did. “Does that mean you’ll fuck me again?”

He licks his lips, and her mind flashes back to how he sucked his fingers clean of her slick earlier. “Is that all you want?”

No. The truth is simple. But she’s not sure it’s what he wants to hear. So she shrugs, lowers her gaze. She’s not stupid. She never expected him to ask for her hand in marriage afterwards or anything. He’s a guy. She offered him sex, he accepted. That’s probably it for him. It makes her a little sad, makes her chest ache, but she can’t really do anything about it. She tries to turn her head away completely, but his grip tightens, holding her in place.

“Well,” Bellamy starts quietly, his eyes soft, braver than her. His eyes flick away to the side. “Uhm. I know you’re probably going off to some fancy Ivy League school after the summer, but maybe, uh. Maybe we can hang out until then?”

_ Obviously _ code for sex. She arches an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Hang-out?”

“I don’t know. Watch movies, go to the pond together, have dinner.“ He grins, bashful, thumb ghosting over her bottom lip. It’s now she notices his cheeks are slightly flushed. “Go to museums and actually look at the art on the walls.”

The ache in her chest worsens, but in a good way. Clarke leans up her tiptoes, pressing her mouth to his for a short kiss, locking her arms behind his neck. Beaming, she agrees, “Sounds perfect to me, Mr. Blake.”

**Author's Note:**

> they boned in a museum bathroom while anyone could walk in
> 
> 😜  
> 👊/||\\_  
> _/¯ ¯\\_
> 
> and then they held hands on the bus the entire way back to their hometown
> 
> 👋  
> \ 😔  
> || \\_  
> _/¯ ¯\\_


End file.
